Читать книгу DANCING WITH THE ICE LADY - Ken Salter - Страница 9

AFTER SKIPPING OUT OF THE OFFICE, I HEADED TO a funky, little café called “Reggie’s Place” on Martin Luther King Way near the Berkeley-Oakland border. I waved to Reggie, who was chopping and dicing vegetables; I slid into a booth at the back where I could watch the door. It’s been a habit of mine ever since I read how Malcolm X always kept his back to the wall and an eye on lookout so his enemies couldn’t take him by surprise.

As a kid raised in Berkeley, I’d identified with Malcolm X and his red hair and light-colored skin. In spite of Berkeley’s reputation for racial tolerance, life was hell for a kid like me growing up in this town. I wasn’t accepted by either black or white kids at school. There were few half-breed blacks like me with a black father and white mother to provide a buffer from the insults and taunts from the cliques of both races that dominated high school. Despite my pale milk chocolate-colored skin and frizzy, rather than kinky hair, I was still a nigger to most of the white kids and a pariah to black kids who resented my white liberal mother with her dark, wavy hair and honey-olive skin inherited from her Sephardic ancestors.

They especially resented my father’s café-au-lait coloring and Creole good looks. I think kids of both races resented dad most because they thought he’d humped his way into the white man’s world where he didn’t belong.

I feel at home in Reggie’s Place. I come here often to write notes on cases and plan investigations. Reggie and I share first names and black skin. The last time anyone called me Reginald Charles instead of R.C., I was in some kind of trouble.

Reggie tipped his green and white A’s baseball cap on my arrival. The lunch special was scrawled on a small chalk board behind the register in large letters, “Fish Gumbo with Corn Bread.” My stomach was already responding to the delicious smells coming from the big iron pots on the stove. I pointed to the chalk board and Reggie flashed me a knowing smile.

When he’d finished chopping his veggies, he brought me a steaming mug of black coffee and plopped it down on the Formica table.

“How you doin’, R.C.? Mista’ Charlie keepin’ you on the run?”

“Same as always, Reggie. The Man likes to see his little darkie play step an’ fetch it. Otherwise, he don’t be too friendly when it’s time to cut my pay.”

“Yeah, we all’s got the same mis’ry, R.C. Them white college folks like to come here an’ watch ol’ Reggie do some steppin’ and fetchin’ too. Be along wid’ yo’ gumbo shortly.”

I pulled my daybook out of my backpack and started a list of things to do on the Simmons case. I needed to nose around the mortuary before anyone suspected what I was up to. I planned to pay a visit on my way back from the courthouse in downtown Oakland.

I called my sister, Tiffany, on my cell phone and left her a message to order title, tax and credit reports for the mortuary on the “QT.” She’s a real estate broker. I signed off with “Catch you later, Miss Gator” which is our code to call me after ten at my cottage.

My next call was to my old buddy, Jeff Banes, at All American Insurance where we used to work together. “Say, Jeff, how you been doin’?”

“Hey, R.C., I was thinking about you, you lucky bastard. I’m commuting two hours a day to the City where I’m chained to my computer terminal while you’re running around on the loose spending clients’ money on God knows what monkey business. I’m jealous.”

“Naw, you got it all wrong, Jeff. I’m the guy running around sweating how to pay the bills and risking his neck on a legal assistant’s pay as an independent contractor. You got the paid vacation, the health plan and the company car.” Jeff chuckled. We both knew he’d give his eyetooth to be out on his own, but couldn’t. He hated the office routine, but with a diabetic kid at home, he couldn’t afford to give up his generous medical benefits. If he quit, he’d never get coverage for his sick kid even though he worked in insurance.

“What’s up?” Jeff asked.

“I need some info on a case. Need to know who’s insuring a black mortuary in Oakland called the Simmons Family Mortuary. I’m especially interested in their liability and malpractice coverage. You know, policy limits and whether they’ve been nailed for any big claims in the last four years.”

“You’re not thinking of investing in one of the most lucrative businesses known to man without cutting in your old buddy Jeff, are you?”

“Wish it were so, Jeff. I’m just doing a routine background on a marital property evaluation. I figure there can’t be many underwriters for such a specialized business.”

“Should be no problem to get the coverage, but it may take a couple of days to track claim records since we don’t do this type of underwriting.”

“No problem on the time frame. Get me everything you can. Give my love to Polly and the kids.”

I had the rest of my plan of attack organized when Reggie whisked a steaming plate of gumbo under my nose and set it on the table. The savory smell of the gumbo along with the three freshly baked pieces of cornbread excited my stomach juices; I couldn’t wait to sop up the gumbo with the cornbread. The meal was probably going to be the highlight of my day. I wolfed it down just as fast as I could shovel it in my craw without burning a hole in my throat.

My first stop on my way to the courthouse was at Sharon Miller’s apartment in the University Village where Cal houses its married students in dilapidated four-plexes built for military personnel during WW II.

Sharon was thrilled to sign her divorce agreement which gave her four years of alimony support in addition to child support to complete her undergraduate B.A. degree and earn a Master’s degree in business administration. Sharon hugged me and pleaded for me to celebrate her victory over her ex by taking her to dinner. Sharon put her ex through grad school; he rewarded her sacrifices by dumping her and their two kids to start his new career in public planning with a younger wife he’d romanced on Sharon’s earnings as a secretary.

I should have said “No” nicely and begged off the temptation. Sharon’s a lovely woman with a trim figure, flaming-red hair and an engaging smile. I felt bad to let her down on her moment of triumph which she attributed to my snooping and nailing her ex. I rationalized that a night out dining and dancing would take my mind off Gloria Simmons.

After agreeing to pick up Sharon later, I made my way down San Pablo Avenue to Oakland. The further I penetrated the inner city, the bleaker the tableau became; I passed rundown tenements alongside long-neglected Victorians, their weather-bleached boards raw and screaming for a coat of paint, their windows without glass or papered with cardboard. Bandit liquor stores on most corners had windows barred and mean-looking brothers leaning against doorways, watching who was buying what.

The old courthouse across from the more modern Oakland Museum had barely survived the ’89 earthquake. I shuddered to think of the problems if the building had burned. Most of the official records I consult are housed in this antiquated structure.

I stopped first at the Recorder’s office. It took twenty minutes working with microfiche to learn that the mortuary’s real property was not owned by the Simmons brothers, but by a Nevada corporation called TJS Enterprises, Inc. The deed had been recorded eighteen months earlier. The deed to the Nevada corporation was signed by the Simmons brothers who had gained title from a deed from the probate court at their father’s death. I paid to get copies I could pick up before leaving the courthouse.

I stopped next at the “bullpen” where legal actions are filed and stored. While a surly clerk begrudgingly searched for the probate case in the inactive files, I ran the index listing lawsuits filed to see if any were against the mortuary. I was rewarded with one active and two inactive litigation files. When the clerk handed me the probate file, I handed her the requisition slips for the lawsuits and my order and check for copying them. I scooted off to the Vital Records office before the clerk could start bitching and throwing me nasty looks.

I wanted to see if Jimmy Simmons had taken out a marriage license; he hadn’t. I had better luck checking the filings for fictitious business name statements. Booker T. Simmons had filed a statement six years ago stating he owned the mortuary as a sole proprietor. I was surprised there was no filing after the father’s death and deeding to the Nevada corporation. It might be an innocent oversight by the Nevada attorney unfamiliar with California requirements or it might be an intentional omission to hide ownership by an out-of-state entity. I made a note to check with the Dept. of Corporations in Sacramento to see if the Nevada corporation had registered with the state and designated a local agent for service of process in case of litigation. I wondered also if Gloria Simmons was aware of the Nevada connection to the business.

I picked up the copies I’d ordered and headed back to the office to face Patsy Kline. I got caught in traffic and Patsy was fuming when I arrived. Saundra was smirking behind her word processor and watching Patsy getting ready to take me to task. She’d probably been helping Patsy load her gun for big game for the moment I came into her sights.

Saundra announced, “Mr. Bean can see you now,” in a sing-song voice full of sham.

Patsy looked a bit worse for wear; she was in her early thirties and starting to put beef on her thighs. She wore a black cocktail dress that emphasized her buxom features but made her look gaudy. She’d over-rouged her cheeks and lips and wore nail polish that clashed with her hennaed hair worn in a pony-tail. Her legs were without hose and her feet were stuffed into scuffed high-heels. She’d worked as a cocktail waitress while her husband took his time getting his M.B.A. degree.

According to Patsy, he started investing her tips in penny gold mining stocks on the unregulated Vancouver Mining Exchange. He claimed they’d be rich by the time he graduated from Cal. My investigation discovered that he’d registered all the mining shares in his name only and had his broker hold them so Patsy couldn’t see his deceit. Patsy was sure the stocks must be worth a fortune. Her hubby vanished after getting his master’s degree and left her with a five year-old kid and two months worth of unpaid bills and rent. Naturally, Patsy was angry as a disturbed hornet and expected me to find and squeeze money out of her departed spouse.

Patsy lit up a cigarette and blew smoke in the direction of the “Smoke And I’ll Croak” sign behind my desk. Working in a smoke-filled bar hadn’t helped her complexion or her sense of humor.

“So, have you found the bastard?” Her voice was deepened by years of smoking.

“No, he’s still on the move.”

“What about all the investments he made with my money?” She took a deep drag on her cigarette and gave me a piercing look.

I tried to avoid her penetrating gaze. “I’m afraid I don’t have good news on that front either . . .”

“What the fuck! I don’t believe this. No way you’re gonna sit there and tell me the bastard got away with all my hard-earned money. I’ll kill the slick fucker.” She had a stranglehold on her cigarette and her other hand pumped up and down in my direction.

“He didn’t get away with anything. The stocks are all worthless. They were all highly speculative issues and most of the companies went belly-up.”

“You mean he stole my hard-earned money and blew it, don’t you?” Her face was flushed and she was on the edge of her seat.

“That’s one way of looking at it. Another way is that he knowingly made high-risk investments and lost.”

“The son-of-a-bitch ripped off Katie and me, and didn’t have the smarts to turn a profit on what he stole. The loser lived off me to go to business school. What a waste! I want you to see he goes to jail.”

“You need to talk to Mr. Green about that. I’ll make an appointment for you to see him to discuss your legal remedies,” I said with a straight face.

Patsy seemed only somewhat mollified by my shunting her off on Nate. I figured it served him right. She was going to be furious when she learned she had hardly any legal recourse against her husband’s actions other than to nail him for unpaid child support. He’d invested community property income and lost it. It might be impossible to collect the child support. We didn’t know where he’d skipped to; he was probably in another state busy setting up a new identity. Let Nate take the heat. I made her an appointment to see him in three days. Tit for Tat.

I knew I should cancel my dinner date with Sharon Miller. It wasn’t a good idea to date clients. Things tend to get sticky real fast. Instead of cancelling, I rationalized that it would be good for both of us to get our minds off recent troubles.

My plan for our evening was simple: enjoy a nice relaxed dinner so we could get to know each other better, then head off to a club in Emeryville where we could dance our asses off and burn off our dinner. I planned to take Sharon back to her apartment, share a friendly kiss at her door and get to bed at a reasonable hour to be ready for a hectic day tomorrow. I had thought of everything for a nice, uncomplicated evening except for what Sharon Miller wanted.

She greeted me with a big, freckled smile. She was dressed in a sexy, form-fitting, green satin cocktail dress with a scoop-neck bodice and a hem that stopped four inches above her knees. I’d only seen her in jeans and long-sleeved shirts and had no idea until now how physically attractive she was. She’d tamed her mop of carrot-red hair with gold barrettes and wore matching hoop earrings. She let me know she could change her high heels for dancing shoes she’d stuffed in her oversize bag once we got to the club. The lady was dressed to party.

I took her to dinner at a local, mellow seafood restaurant on the Berkeley Marina that caters to a mixed-race crowd. I was reluctant to take her to one of the soul food restaurants I prefer because it could be tricky on a first date with a white lady. Sharon had spent most of her life in a small, conservative, white farming community in the Central Valley. I wasn’t sure how comfortable she’d be if we dined on unfamiliar food in a restaurant where she’d probably be the only white person. Once I saw how she’d dressed, there was no way I’d take her to her to dine in a black restaurant.

She might cause a riot.

Sharon took my mind of Gloria Simmons right away. She was real excited to be out on a date after all she’d been through. She was real easy to talk to and we really enjoyed each other’s company.

We lingered over our meal to the annoyance of our waiter. Before either of us realized it, we’d sipped through two bottles of Charles Mondavi Chardonnay wine. Sharon’s deep hazel eyes kept changing color from brownish to greenish hues as they reflected complex emotions. We talked comfortably about our very different lives growing up. Sharon told me about getting pregnant and dropping out of college to support her husband and the kid. He’d been her high school sweetheart and she’d never slept with anyone before or after she’d married him. She felt betrayed by him; he’d dumped her after ten years so he could start his career with a younger woman.

By the time I paid the bill as the restaurant was closing, we were both a little drunk and in a festive mood. As we made our way to my 1968 Chevy Impala, she slipped her hand in mine and squeezed and I did the same.

Before I could engage the ignition, Sharon was all over me. I’m not used to women I date making the moves, but there was no guile on her part. Her husband hadn’t touched her in nine months and she was hungry for a man’s touch.

She kissed me with fervor and we explored and probed with our tongues. I slid the palm of my hand slowly across the soft satin fabric molding her breasts. She shivered. Her nipples hardened and stretched to meet my fingertips through her dress as my fingers softly traced their outline through the fabric.

She moaned softly as I moved my fingers slowly inside the bodice of her dress and under her pushup bra. I carefully slipped the dress straps over her shoulders and released her breasts from their restraint. Her moans grew more urgent when I let my fingers move tenderly down her torso to explore her soft but mature body molding her dress. When I reached her thighs, I increased the pressure and moved slowly back up to her breasts. As I reached the swell of her breasts, she arched her back to meet my hand. Her body trembled with anticipation as I gently tugged her erect nipples one by one.

She moaned deeply as she helped me unfasten her bra and slip her dress down to her waist. Sharon’s nipples were superb. They were the most erotic and sensitive I’ve ever touched. They were hard, thick and nearly an inch long when fully erect. I couldn’t get enough of either one. They were so responsive that when I stroked one, Sharon guided my hand to her other nipple. Playing doctor as a kid with my female cousins hadn’t prepared me adequately for the joys Sharon provided.

We both got pretty steamed up. It had been a long time since I made love in the back seat of an automobile, but that’s what we did. We were a couple of happy campers. What a jerk she married not to appreciate how exciting his wife could be once she was turned on. He had an uncut diamond in the rough in his bed for ten years and didn’t know it for diddly. Sharon wasted ten years of her life and her college years with a dumb clown who couldn’t appreciate her intelligence, kind heart, openness and simmering sexuality. She was so grateful for some good loving that she was crying tears of joy when I finally dropped her back at her apartment in the wee hours of the morning.

I’d flubbed my chance to get a fresh start in the morning, but who cared other than perhaps Nate. Sharon’s celebration was a once in a lifetime event for us both.